


Lonely (But Not When You Hold Me)

by SouthernBird



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fix It Fic, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implications of PTSD/Trauma, Implied Romance, Lance Sews/Knits, Loneliness, M/M, Spoilers, There's Cat Plushies, inner thoughts, past trauma, season two, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:46:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9557762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: It’s an unsettling thing, something sickening that doesn’t sit well at all, almost as if he should have noticed the lack of presence earlier. Wary as he is to admit it, there’s a tiny voice of longing that dances in his chest through the silence of the corridor he’s standing in, as if the lack of the warmth of Lance’s presence has made him cold.-(A bit of a fix-it story after Episode 8/10 of VLD: Season Two!)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to several people, but mainly to Rachel_Huey88 (for our discussion concerning Lance's characterization and story in Season Two and being so, so wonderful) and Cosumosu (for her darling [fanart](https://twitter.com/guessibetter/status/822617371634438144) that inspired this)!

It is not until after retrieving what may be the most annoying existence in the universe (his own opinion, of course) from Beta Traz that Shiro has a moment to himself, to think upon the most recent events of this crazy warlike reality he calls his life, but truly, it feels tilted to feel inclined as such, as though this really is all his to call his own. 

 

It isn’t, but he has always been more biased against himself than for, it seems. 

 

The whole affair of these missions has simply has been hectic, draining himself, his team, and his allies to the point where they only have energies directed towards the mission, hopefully their final one in this dismal situation, their last glowing dawn as it brings that finest glimmer of hope, fragile like porcelain, but as lovely as starlight. Fragile, so fragile, it’ll fracture under the slightest of tensions, but it’s worth it; every endeavor must be _worth_ it, or it will be Shiro that cracks instead.  

 

Shaking the thought from his own treasonous head, Shiro draws himself back to where he stands, gathers his bearings, assesses them carefully before tucking them away to scout a bit. Even with the presence of the Blade of Mamora in conjunction with their own team, Shiro still feels that nagging in the back of his head, that incessant need to stay on patrol, make sure each of his own are safe, resting or working otherwise. It comes from losing the Holts, still a deep,  festering laceration that will not heal on its own, not until Shiro sees both of them alive and well. 

 

Rather, it’s what he hopes for against all odds, but at least he knows Matt is out there. Somewhere, hopefully so far away from Galra prowess that he can no longer see or breathe it. 

 

Or, maybe, it’s simply a _habit_ from the Garrison days when he took part in the patrols after curfew. He does not know, nor does he have the wherewithal to determine the core of it all. He was a man of the military despite his only desire being to see the expanses of the universe with his own eyes, to fly away from his little planet to discover the constellations outlined in pages of textbooks. The matters of meanings can become more trifles than true strives to a better self, so he lays down his own thoughts to take part in mundane routine. 

 

The first round is relatively quiet until he finds Hunk and Pidge in the laboratory clamoring about with their tools on a few projects to pass the time. They rattle formulas and hand wrenches and splicers over to each other as though they have been partners in crime for years, and all the while, the sight is comforting, even a little adorable how their size difference means nothing in their senses of intelligence and engineering. Shiro smiles, allowing himself a few sweet moments to bask in their friendly debate on what they’ll divide when Zarkon is gone, when they can return to Earth and maybe even to Galaxy Garrison to continue their studies. 

 

That makes him pause, creates a small tinge of something heavy and dull in his heart, so he carries on. 

 

Keith, unsurprisingly, is found with the leaders of the Blade of Mamora, speaking lowly with them, a questioning crease along his brow that compels the former Champion to stop. There could be a million probabilities, thousands of nuances that could have arisen to bring about such a scene. However, after seeing their expressions never waver from seriousness, Shiro decides not interrupt them despite the urge to do so strong and steadfast.  

 

Shiro has to remind himself, as he has had to time and time again, that Keith is working along that burdensome, warisome path towards being a leader, to become his successor with the knowledge he has acquired after his trials. 

 

There are times when Shiro should let his thrive naturally, he supposes, have them search for the answers all on their own. In the end, if they are so dependent on him, they cannot grow into themselves, bloom into a full, glorious self that he so desperately needs to view with his own eyes to know, yes, he is capable of something _good_. 

 

So, he leaves with only a slight catch of Keith’s eyes, both nodding in greeting with small knowing smiles before Shiro proceeds down he corridor, the lights of the castle drawing him ever further. 

 

Coran and Allura are of course at the helm of the castle, diagnostics lighting their displays with levels of reserve power and artillery fire as the two Alteans discuss their plans of attack, how it all ends so soon and they can rest, finally rest after being so hapless and so hidden for centuries while the universe undertook the wrath of a tyrant. 

 

They two are safe though, and in no need of Shiro’s services as Allura states plainly once her eyes meet his, her worry evident as she shoos him away with a wave of her hand, mice squeaking on her shoulder as they wave goodbye. 

 

That is what Shiro assumes that they do; their sentience is still a mystery, but their company brings Allura even a softest sense of joy, so he says nothing of concern about his mullings.  

 

It’s possibly an hour, several even because time is nothing but a minuscule happenstance within their ship, finding Shiro still scouring through each deck, each room, glancing through the training decks, finding nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that should put Shiro on his guard. It’s almost endless, how long these permitter checks take, but nothing can be found, nothing sinister and blighting is creeping amongst them, ready to dismantle their best laid plans. 

 

However, it’s finally when he gets to the lowest decks that Shiro realizes he hasn’t seen Lance. 

 

It’s an unsettling thing, something sickening that doesn’t sit well at all, almost as if he should have noticed the lack of presence earlier. Wary as he is to admit it, there’s a tiny voice of longing that dances in his chest through the silence of the corridor he’s standing in, as if the lack of the warmth of Lance’s presence has made him cold. 

 

Shiro feels a sense of disgruntled reluctance to think back on their past few encounters, how Lance offered to be the second that attended Shiro to the base of the Blades (then there’s that _shatter_ of boasting false confidence, that _flinch_ before storm of anger clouded over those ocean blues, made Lance raise himself up and, for once, actually _question_ Shiro’s commands and reasonings), how Lance helped them infiltrate Beta Traz… 

 

How Lance must not have realized that the intercom was still linked with Shiro’s, his leader able to hear every word Lance spoke to his newly acquired yupper companion. 

 

Shiro, honestly, should not have patched in; any sort factor could have caused them more problems than benefit, but he had been curious, just wanted to check in on his teammate when Pidge’s communications had gone into radio silence. At first, it had been a sense of pride that swelled within him, being able to overhear how Lance truly felt, how proud he was of Pidge and Hunk and even Keith, how Shiro was an _awesome_ leader, how each member of their team was such a great, contributing piece to the whole. 

 

_“I thought I was the sharpshooter…”_

 

Then, it grew quiet, steadily quiet, almost heartbreakingly thin with Lance’s brittle words. 

 

“ _Maybe I’m just a fifth wheel, seventh if you could count Coran and Allura.”_

 

Shiro feels like there’s static in his veins, something that eats away at him as he thinks about that, how he had tried to reward Lance by calling him ‘our sharpshooter’ once Slav was freed and in their care. The static hums louder, more corrosive, something that just drives Shiro to find where Lance has gone to. 

 

It’s a motivation that he has felt time and time again, watching out for one of his own, being there in that encouraging way his mentors, especially Commander Holt, was, and besides… he needs to apologize. 

 

He hadn’t meant it the way he did, not truly. He hadn’t meant to put Lance down, hadn’t meant to make it appear that Shiro was biased (except he had been lately, a little bit too much so…) to the point where he did not believe in Lance’s unique skill set.

 

It just hadn’t been the best skill set at the time, so he opted for Keith. 

 

After all this searching, his heart is beginning to race at where Lance could have been, and then thoughts of how easily Ulaz infiltrated the Castle of Lions breaks into the mental spectrum, how there was a possible inclination that since the Blue Paladin cannot be found, it may be a simple reasoning such as kidnapping or sabotage. 

 

Shiro is almost haggardly paranoid and a bit out of himself because where the _hell_ is Lance when he finally reaches the lower observatory and hears a little sound, soft muffled words he cannot decipher from his position in the corridor. 

 

Shit, shit, _shit_ is all that breaks about in Shiro’s head, a million of horrendous scenarios dancing sly and cutting; it’s Lance, or it’s Lance and someone has him, or it’s someone that could potentially harm _any_ of the parties on board and— damn it all, he isn’t waiting, he’s a military man and a Paladin of Voltron, his Galra arm glowing as he lets the door slide open quietly and—. 

 

“We can do this if we work together! Form Voltron!’ 

 

… _what the hell?_

 

The lights are dim, really and truly only the glowing chasms of galaxies and space dust lighting the observatory in a blue sheen, a few lonely machines humming and beeping with the otherwise silence of the room save for its one occupant, the one who is currently sitting on the cold floor, back turned to the door while surrounding by a circle of what Shiro can gather are plush cats. 

 

Lance is safe, and Shiro can release that intoxicating dread that he tends to cling to, deactivating his arm so he can step forward, ready to interrogate Lance, inquire as to where he had been and what he was doing. 

 

“Pidge, Keith!” Lance says, imitating a low, gruff voice that weaves tinges of authority and command, done entirely with the respect of leadership as opposed to any other sense, “form arms! And Lance, Hunk!” With rapid movements, each cat is raised, each a color depicting the color of their lions respectively and each a different size and shape: Pidge’s, green and small, deceptive, and then Hunk, large and soft, comforting. There is even red cat for Keith, with a bit of a glare and adorned with a little felt knife, but the whole entirety is just adorable that it is simply difficult to find the thing threatening at all.

 

Upon closer inspection, Shiro finds Lance has tied a small blue bow to the cat depicting himself, even having a winking expression. It almost brings a little bit of a smirk to the Black Paladin’s lips because of course there is that (cute) wink, something so Lance that this little plush version should have the same. 

 

It’s then that Shiro blinks, wondering where all these stuffed toys came from, how Lance even managed to acquire such items, what secretly stolen items might have been bartered out, but then there’s the evidence of threadbare fabrics, the matter that some of the colors on each cat do not appear to be the same, comprised of scraps and uneven cuts. However, despite all this, the cats  all hold a sense of love from the hands that sewn them together. Those hands, those careful and loving hands, were Lance’s, must have been, from how despite how he is abrupt to pick each up in the duration of his ‘play time,’ still holds them tender, as if they will shatter and will leave him otherwise. 

 

Shiro can’t help but smile, settling against the mid-rise console while Lance prattles on excitedly, his voice ranging from light falsettos and lower tones, his voice telling the story of a grand battle against the Galra Empire, how each member of the team swooped and fought, how each one had a role to partake in the fight for the universe. 

 

Then, finally, Lance picks up his own cat, “Shiro! I want to help you with this mission!” 

 

The merriment suddenly freezes, snaps cold and barren, as if the temperature dropped ten degrees in a matter of seconds. There’s a tension that grows along Shiro’s spine from it, and he isn’t sure why, but he almost fears what will come from the black cat with its small scar along its nose. 

 

“I’m taking Keith for this mission; he’s the right guy for the job,” Lance contrives as the Shiro cat’s voice, handle gently swaying him in the air as he speaks, “he’s the one I’m taking to the fight.” 

 

“But Shiro—!”

 

“No buts: Keith is going with me.” 

 

Then, quiet echoes faint and hollow, that same brittleness bearing down in the air. 

 

Time passes excruciatingly slow, dismal and heavy, as though there are words that linger there in the stale air of the castle, that are only dimly floating about the dim light from worlds and stars abound, yet never slip into existence. It’s fragile, these orbs of concern, of fear and deprecation that drift in the lonely room. It’s eerie, haunting even, as the black cat is slowly set down onto the floor, discarded with the scene no longer brilliant. 

 

Those hands bring the blue cat close to Lance, his knees bending so that he can curl around the soft thing, allowing himself to hide amongst the eyes of the other cats, hide against the reality that surrounds the universe, the worlds spinning slow and sure outside, uncaring in their orbits.

 

Shiro feels the edgings of an awkward situation along his own sense of self, finds his own orbit tilted off its axis, the very transit he was so firm within— there is something amiss, a blue satellite of kilter from the other moons, and the lead planet’s gravity has not kept the lingering blue from floating off well enough. 

 

It’s dismal in the quiet, suffocating with the dust that settles in Shiro’s lungs, that passes through his systems, invokes sluggish steps as he eases into the safe haven, his patrol lost in the wake of needing to rectify the loss that sags at Lance’s shoulders, the burden of _not good enough_ prevalent within the cascades of star lights. 

 

Shifting down, he sits next to Lance, the younger man never once peeking up from the soft fabricc of his cat, the blue patchwork plush an adorable sight while very much imbued with the essence of the Blue Paladin himself, the quirk of a smirk, and cute line of a wink— very much like Lance, but in a way, the smirk appears to liken itself more to a frown, eyes half open to the inevitability of _failure._

 

Gray eyes slide over to observe the black cat, Shiro almost smiling at the features that obviously give the cat it’s namesake, the scar along the nose, the determination etched in the stitches that it’s nearly reverent. Did Lance truly respect him so much, even after their tense moment concerning the mission to the headquarters of the Blades of Mamora? Then again, these stitches seem a bit faded, as though sewn maybe some time ago; who knows how long Lance has used these cats, these soft toys, as means of distraction, as means of his own therapy. 

 

Right then, though, Shiro knows what he needs to do, realizes that he has not been in control, has let himself go in ways he shouldn’t have; despite the churning of something inside his head, despite the ever growing roar of _something happened to me, something happened_ that itches and claws over his nerves and clings to each anxiety, despite what he went through, he is still the Black Paladin, the leader that his team will follow. 

 

For the Black Lion, he had to earn her trust, her undivided acceptance as her pilot, and now he needed to show he deserved that sacred position, that he was capable of being the leader that his predecessor failed to be. 

 

“… Lance,” Shiro begins, coughing a little when Lance yelps, nearly stumbles, but a light grip on his shoulder (bony, too bony, for a young man that has been training with their team, that has been on the same missions) keeps the other in place while the elder of the two picks up the black cat, sets him up. 

 

“Lance, I—“ Shiro coughs again, honestly feeling utterly ridiculous since he hasn’t had to play pretend since his sisters were younger as he loved to babysit them and be included in their imaginative games— or maybe, he has been playing pretend this whole time, hidden behind a guise of a man that believes in their cause, totes the flag of honor towards victory so certain, controls himself and his prides and his paranoias. 

 

He cannot let Lance see behind the mask, not today, and not any day, especially not when they are so close to finally resting, to finally being able to see the seas and the shores and the mountains of their home again. 

 

“Uh… Lance, I… there’s a very special mission I need your help with,” he scours his own sense of self for the words, for every syllable that he can grasp for the importance of this, for what is a body without one of its limbs, what’s a body without its heart? What’s the earth when the waters are taken away? What’s the sea with no wonderment? 

 

It’s nothing, and Shiro knows that without Lance, it isn’t the same, even if that may some personal feelings he has not allowed himself to ponder upon, deciding to lock those thoughts until after the war. 

 

Lance just only seems to respond in a stare, jaw slightly slack because here is Takashi Shirogane, massive build of a man that has slaughtered combatants to save himself, has dismantled sentries alike with his bare hand and been the hero and role model of the Garrison flight program, holding a homemade toy to play out an imagined scene of battle. 

 

But, it seems to work, Lance rubbing at an eye before he brings his own toy up, frown creased deep along his thin lips. 

 

“Shouldn’t… Keith go with you instead? Or Hunk or Pidge? They’re smart. Strong. Hunk can handle anything you throw at him, and Pidge can outsmart any Galra _anything_ , and Keith…” 

 

Shiro heard every ounce of praise Lance told Laika on Beta Traz, and though the revelation had stopped him, made him warm deep down because truly, the team was an amazing group, full of surprises and skills and resources to take down a millennia old Empire, but there was one that did not believe he belonged, truly a burden, with nothing to offer other than the possibility of being a decent shot. 

 

“No, Lance, I need _you_ ,” he murmurs to his Blue, inching closer to lower his voice in the idea that someone could pass by, and this moment, this space of time in their universe, needed to only include the two of them, the pieces already gathered in full, “we need your courage, your humor— we… no.” 

 

Shiro almost can’t do it, can’t let himself break into that vault he’s put aside, can’t let himself dig within the dust and the mold, past tomes of himself that he would rather never look upon again, never have to remember, to recall that he was once full of hope, once full of dreams. He cannot push past the weathered pages, the sweet-sick scent of decay of his own mind—. 

 

But, there is Lance, soft and resigned, so open and empathetic, kindly laying a hand on Shiro’s shoulder and breaking Shiro’s heart with a sweet and gentle, “you don’t have to do this for me.” 

 

Oh, God, but he does, he can’t bear it, Shiro can’t fail here, he _can’t_ , not like he’s failed so many others, not like he’s failed Ulaz, not in the same way he has failed so many more: Matt, Commander Holt— if he reaches deep into the recesses, Shiro can see the stars he once counted laying in the black veils of yesterday, the constellations that were once his comforts when he’d sit on the back porch and just _watch_. 

 

Some days, when Shiro is daring and permits himself to be close to Lance, he can see those same stars in the calmness of waves in his eyes, and damn him, it makes his heart yearn more. 

 

He’s a weak man, weaker than he ever proposed to be, and fire is warm, red is comforting and stabilizing in these days that Shiro has grown to lose more of himself, into the nightmares that hiss and that bite. He knows Keith, and Keith knows him; Keith knows the man Shiro used to be, and that’s why he goes to his side, and keeps Keith close. 

 

There will be a day Shiro sees  reflection in the glass, and no longer remember who the man who’s face he shares is. 

 

“We— I need your smile,” he chokes out, the spill forthcoming in crashes of waves he intends to never let another see, not even himself, yet here he is, a storm cloud that cannot break the charges of his own rumbles, “I need your laughter, I need to know you’re happy because you try so hard to make us smile and you’re so over the top about it, how you flirt— and it’s dumb, Lance, I’m sorry, you can’t fool me— even how you talk, it’s like you’re trying to make us all forget how awful this is and…”

 

Shiro feels the weight of something on his shoulder, a head of soft brunet along the broad line as a hand inches the blue cat closer to it’s leader, the black. 

 

“It’s okay, Shiro,” whispers the most long suffering sighs that Shiro has ever heard, and fuck it, it’s not okay for Lance to sound like that, “really, dude, it’s fi—.”

 

“You’re _special,_ Lance,” Shiro interrupts with firm conviction, voice lowering an octave because this between them, this humble hum, feels intimate and is rightly so, “you’re so special to us— to me.”

 

The slightest of shifts brings blue eyes boring into his jaw, and Shiro answers the gaze by laying his head along Lance’s, tilting himself to wrap an arm around that lithe waist, and he almost wishes he hadn’t, because the bones of Lance’s hip are so pronounced, it just adds another crack to Shiro’s already chipped mental state, ascertains that he isn’t working fast enough to get them _home._ Their families are out there, at home, possibly fretting or _mourning_ , mourning a son, a father, a brother— and Shiro swears there’s a hiss on the nape of his neck, something dark and cold that reminds him every damn moment away from Earth that he is _failing_ , losing himself, the very composure he fights so hard to keep, gone adrift, scattered in an onslaught that is simply unnerving as it is destructive. 

 

Then, there is a long drift of breath, and between them, their two feline counterparts meet, blue embracing black as though it will heal what hurts, will alleviate what stresses, will shoulder the burdens for there to be a sense of rest that has not been experienced in spaces of weeks, no rather, months, though it feels more like centuries to Shiro.

 

“You gotta give yourself a break, Shiro,” Lance murmurs, his voice cotton soft in their own space, the air losing its sense of charge to instead deflate in a calm that the elder hasn’t permitted his own self to bask in, and when did this happen? He’s the leader, the pilot of the Black Lion, and here is his Blue Paladin who was lonely, so lonely when there are now others in their ship in cohabitation, comforting him instead. With a gentle squeeze of his hand, Lance’s cat hugs Shiro’s a bit tighter, “because if you don’t, you’re gonna burn out, like a supernova or whatever.” 

 

Against his better judgment, Shiro smiles against the head of brunet he’s leaned on, chuckling bitterly at the sentiment, “I’d explode if I were a supernova, Lance.” 

 

“Burn out, explode… they’re still both bad,” is the counter point, conjoined with a little sniff that reveals the other is a bit put out, “just… be good to yourself? I mean… aren’t new stars born from supernovae?” Between them, Shiro has noticed that Lance has not drawn his hand away, as though if he does, it’ll sever the connection, this space of time that is just theirs and theirs alone. 

 

No one can lurk in or linger out, yet the eyes of their feline comrades stare from the floor, as though they know far more and far greater than the two of them ever will. 

 

“I think I can do that,” is all Shiro relents as he squeezes Lance’s toy back with his own, and it’s silent again, but not tensely so, but rather comfortable as they sit and watch the stars slip by, pushing them ever closer to a fate that they are not prepared for, yet simply cannot stop in the fears of something more catastrophic in its place. 

 

Shiro, though, would rather the interwoven lines of life just pause there and then, let him linger upon the precipice of whatever tomorrow would bring, and allow himself the honor of easing a loneliness far deeper than any chasm he can fathom with his arm still tight around a lithe waist. 


End file.
